Winter can feel endless in Indiana. This year has been particularly brutal, with 20+ inches of snow and historically cold temperatures that led to a giant ice dam forming on the side of my house and eventually melting its way into an unfortunate leak in my ceiling:

As someone born in August, I’ve always preferred the summer to the winter. I love the heat and would much rather bake as soon as I stand out in the sun than shiver even when I’m inside, bundled in a cozy sweater but still somehow cold.

Do you ever just feel sluggish in the winter? Your instinct to just curl up in a ball and try to stay warm, your energy zapped and nonexistent? Same, friend, same.

Truth be told, I can also feel like this when something is not going my way. At the risk of sounding like a dysregulated toddler on the verge of a meltdown, I, too, want to curl up on the floor and cry when I don’t get what I want, if it’s something my heart was really set on. To be fair, I’m talking less “minor disappointment for not getting something I would have liked” and more “major waiting game” or “wow, I was really hoping that would turn out differently.”

If we’re being honest, those big disappointments or seasons of waiting can feel exactly like an Indiana winter: bleak. Cold. Isolating.

A few months ago, my husband broke his collarbone. Besides the pain of going through surgery and recovery, he also had to deal with being on a 5-10lb weight restriction on what he could lift and carry. We’ve had two big snowstorms during his recovery, and we realized quickly that we could either pay someone to help us dig out our sidewalks, or it would be up to me to move that wet concrete blanket out of the way. To his credit, he wanted to get outside help, so it wouldn’t all fall on me, but in my stubbornness, I insisted on doing it solo both times.

The first time, in November, I reasoned that the snow was only a couple inches deep, and then I huffed and puffed my way through about three feet of our sidewalk before I had to take a break. It took me nearly an hour to get one pass at part of our sidewalk done, and I realized I was in trouble.

The one consolation? At the beginning of the snowfall, before it covered everything, it graced the Dahlias in our front garden with the most beautiful dusting of snow:

It felt like a wink from God, a reminder that despite my husband’s injury and feeling very overwhelmed with the long road of his recovery, God hadn’t left us, and was, in fact, showing up in unexpected ways every day. Good friends brought us meals and came to visit; his mom came to help after the surgery and took a night shift with him so I could get some sleep; and one nurse friend of ours even graciously changed his bandages and showed me how to do it without passing out.

Thankfully, we made it through that storm (the snow and the injury), and if you read my last blog post, you know I spent many of the next several weeks hitting the gym, determined to build better habits and get in better shape, becoming stronger little by little.

Then January hit.

Temps dropped to -7 degrees Fahrenheit.

Snow started falling.

And falling.

And falling…

When it finally stopped long enough for me to get out there with my shovel, I worried about repeating my embarrassment from a few months earlier. My husband again insisted we hire someone to help with it, since he still wasn’t allowed to lift enough. I insisted I could do it by myself.

At this point, we’d been relatively snowed in for days, so I was itching to move and to be outside, despite the still frigid temps. As I dug in my shovel and got to work, I realized that despite the snow being significantly deeper than it had been in November, I was able to move way more of it in a shorter amount of time.

Measuring my fitness journey progress in cubic feet of snow moved per hour felt pretty good, not gonna lie, although I did lament that at this point, our flowerbed was long dead, no more gorgeous Dahlia-in-the-snow reminders of God’s provision.

As I walked around our neighborhood that week, though, something stopped me in my tracks. Not one, but two thriving flowerpots, vibrant against the snow.

Amazed, I stepped closer to take a look, already thanking the Lord and shaking my head in wonder that He’d show up and remind me of His love in the craziest way, and then I busted out laughing.

They’re fake.

If you look closely, you can tell.

They aren’t real flowers- that’s how they’re still alive in the snow.

As I cracked up at my own silliness in somehow thinking these were real, live flowers, even if only momentarily, I realized an important distinction.

No, they were not live flowers.

But they are real.

They are there, still reminders of life and brightness, bold against the backdrop of the snow. Not being alive doesn’t make them any less real reminders of a God who loves us and knows when we are going through a season of deep winter and could use a pick-me-up.

I smiled again, and it hit me that when we are in really difficult seasons of disappointment and waiting and longing for things to be different, God can still show up in unexpected ways. We can still search for reminders of His love and presence with us, even if those reminders themselves aren’t the ones we would choose.

Psalm 46:5, my favorite verse, says, “God is within her, she will not fall; God will help her at break of day.”

Wildflower, if you’re experiencing winter right now, I encourage you to take a deep breath and ask God to show you where the flowers are when they all seem buried and dead. I pray He’d show up in your life right now in a way that lets you recognize and feel brightness and joy and warmth when you’re feeling cold and numb. If you’re not in a season of winter right now, I’m so glad. I hope it’s easy for you to see the flowers, and I’d ask you to see if any of your loved ones could use a bouquet or two to remind them they’re not alone in their winter. Show up. Make the meal. Sit with them.

May we all find our snow flowers.